


come 'round on the longest night

by DeHeerKonijn



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Friendship, M/M, Platonic Kisses, but with hobbits so you know they do it up right, generic winter food-eating holiday, mistletoe fic, romantic kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28226175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/pseuds/DeHeerKonijn
Summary: Legolas regards the cheery red ribbon, confused, but before he can wonder too much about what exactly everyone seems to be waiting for, Gimli has laughingly pulled him in by the collar of his tunic....or, Seasons Greenleafings!
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Frodo Baggins/Rose Cotton/Sam Gamgee, Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 34
Kudos: 181





	come 'round on the longest night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roselightfairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/gifts).



> Solstice! This time of year is hard for me, with or without the Challenging Current Events going on. And to be honest, I don't usually seek out much holiday fic - so if there are eighty bajillion mistletoe fics out there already...I hope you will find something to enjoy in one more. :) 
> 
> Roselightfairy, thank you for such fun times spitballing, brainstorming, teeth-gnashing, and a full year of general goofery. Keep the light lit, my friend, the days only get longer from here!
> 
> Also, Boromir is alive because I say so. :'(

Rosie Gamgee serves the goose at 6:00 PM sharp. Even for a hobbit meal it is an impressive spread; roasted squash, parsnips in vinegar, all sorts of cheeses, any side-dish one could wish for, all sitting warm and waiting in a crowded row of tureens along the long wooden table of Bag End. The massive tallow candle had been lit at dawn, and burns steadily still as it will through the night. An occasional passing draft will make the little flame sputter, only for a moment. The resulting puff of smoke stings Legolas’ eyes slightly, especially in such a tight space, but the scent of clove and the delicate light have dipped the evening in amber, and he barely notices. Sat at the table with his knees near his chest, he watches the commotion that is their gaggle of hobbits, two men, two elves, and a dwarf bustling about in a smial at the height of the reveling season, scraping chairs and sitting down together to pass potatoes around and _ooh_ and _aah_ at the perfectly golden skin of the lovingly tended rotisserie.

Though he has never been to Bag End before in his long life, though he himself is older than the place, the respect he has for it and its legacy runs deep. The love of it is apparent, obvious, he can almost reach out and touch the memories of lifetimes before that are grasped tight by the tree roots twisting through the earthen walls, drinking them up like water, like sunshine. He cannot help but think it _right_ , down to his core, that they should all be sharing the solstice like this. 

A warm home, tucked away from the snow on the shortest day of the year, is meant to be bright and loud with guests.

And loud it is - there is so much coming and going and refilling of tin tankards and joyful, ale-slanted storytelling that Legolas almost doesn’t hear Merry when he pipes up, “Oh, watch out there, master dwarf!” There is a characteristic light of mischief in his eyes and the whole gathering stops to watch.

Legolas had been stooping to pass under the archway to the kitchen, doing his part to collect empty plates just as Gimli was squeezing past him in the opposite direction. They both pause to follow Merry’s gaze up to the sprig of green carefully tacked to the wood beam above them.

Legolas regards the cheery red ribbon, confused, but before he can wonder too much about what exactly everyone seems to be waiting for, Gimli has laughingly pulled him in by the collar of his tunic. Over the stack of dirty dishware, Gimli presses a warm, insistent kiss to his lips. Legolas reciprocates, of course, why shouldn’t he - but he is a bit surprised by how suddenly it happened, perplexed that the gathering is clapping for them, and then boggled at how suddenly Gimli pulls away again, sending Legolas back on his way with a fond swat at his backside. Everyone laughs and, just like that— 

“So there I was, with fistfuls of stolen pastry…” 

—Boromir is talking again as if his tale about the mishap with the hunting dogs was never interrupted.

Merry must recognize the bemusement on Legolas’ face. He is having his pipe at the small kitchen table, overseeing cleanup but not notably contributing, feet propped up onto the opposite bench.

“Don’t you have mistle in the Greenwood, Legolas? Or is it plenty green enough without?” Merry asks.

“We have it, yes,” Legolas replies, taking up the wash-basin brush, “But we do not use it for much. What was all that?”

Pippin appears to swipe a leftover dinner roll from the basket. He and Merry always look such a pair, darting to and fro to follow one another. Even now he jumps in just as Merry opens his mouth: “You hang it in the home all winter, and when you find yourself beneath it with someone, you have to kiss them!”

Legolas laughs. “That’s curious! Why should I need the excuse to kiss my own husband?” And let alone, he thinks, to be encouraged to do so with an audience. In fact, he recalls just that morning, when Pippin had cat-called him through the window as he and Gimli stole a quiet moment out in the snowy garden. He’d been miming rude vomiting gestures on the other side of the pane.

“That’s the fun of it - it isn’t just for married folk!” Now Sam has arrived in the kitchen, escaped from the boisterous sounds of Gimli and Boromir one-upping each other’s storytelling in the next room. His cheeks are pink - from ale, from laughing, from the whirlwind of hosting, and he must be in a cheerful mood indeed, because he does not even address the elf with an honorific. “Mistle has served many a courting hobbit well.” 

“Or hobbits who _hope_ to be courting,” Merry’s eyebrows wiggle suggestively at Sam, who splutters and scolds him. Legolas grins wide - clearly there is some yarn there that he has not yet heard spun, but the night is young even with the sun is five hours gone.

Legolas has plenty of time to learn that this tradition actually _is_ quite fun. 

When he is caught for a second time under a different cluster, Legolas dutifully leans in for a friendly peck against Frodo’s lips; and Pippin’s bleat of unrestrained glee nearly startles him away. The rest of the group laughingly explains that it need not be such a close kiss, and Legolas apologizes for the misunderstanding, but Frodo takes it with his usual good nature. 

“I may be too deep in the drink tonight, but I am not so unwise as to refuse a kiss from a friend,” he says with a grin, grasping the elf’s hands firmly and kindly.

Legolas has never been one for shyness when it comes to physical touch - and after all, kissing is a sign of affection, an expression of love. Who could he possibly love more than this unlikely crowd of people with him here and now? A supper nearly as large and impressive as dinner comes and goes. As he watches his friends get progressively tipsier, complaining of overindulgence, he finds himself reflecting that he loves each one of them more and more. 

It quickly becomes clear, too, that it is terribly easy to get caught up in the merriment of spotting others under the doorway; Bag End is such a squeeze to the several non-hobbits that any little jostle for the purpose of fetching a mug or clearing a dish soon sees that kisses are being distributed left and right as plentiful as pipe weed. 

While he and Pippin shout encouragement from where they are, sprawled together in front of the hearth with their brandy cider, he pays attention to the different ways they uphold this peculiar ritual.

The party has moved to the sitting room for the evening, and Aragorn is next as Arwen fetches an extra light. When they kiss, it is brief, chaste, well-earned. They are almost comically too tall for the room and yet, with the little lantern between them, together they look every bit the gilded storybook illustration, an elfmaid and a hunter embraced in secret in the woods. 

Not long after, with a chorus of cries for him to stop puttering and sit _down_ already, Frodo and Rosie each squish a stammering Sam between them. His cheeks are pinker than ever before, but Legolas notices his thick arms tight around both of their waists.

Twenty minutes later, Merry mashes his lips boyishly into Frodo’s temple, ruffling his hair for good measure, and then Legolas gets Merry - who playfully _asks_ for a kiss on the lips and gets one on the crown of his head instead. 

Then, with the candles sunk low, Gimli is cordial as any prince, bowing his head and placing a respectful kiss to the back of Rosie’s hand light as a wish. She giggles, and bravely returns the same gesture to crows of laughter.

Arwen bestows one sweet peck on each of Boromir’s cheeks, slender hands at his shoulders. The man tries hard not to look bashful about it. The windows steam from the warmth within and the cold without, but the ecstatic cacophony when it is revealed that that Gamgees are expecting is far too loud to hear the howling wind.

In repayment for all his egging on, everyone hoots and hollers at Legolas’ delighted yelp as Gimli dips him low and smacks a whiskery kiss to the hollow of his neck. 

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this!” Gimli announces with a playful wink. “Here, come help me pass around the cobbler.”

And Pippin finally gets what’s coming to him, as is usually his lot, when he finds himself under the archway with Aragorn. In the absence of a wizard to devil him, the king of Gondor takes up the task, grabs the hobbit’s face with a grim expression and mauls him with his stubble for far longer than he did even his own wife, ignoring the squirming and shrieking. Legolas nearly spits out his drink with amusement, and shouts extra for that one, thumping his tankard on the tabletop as the dwarves do.

Legolas doesn’t remember the last time he’s had so much joyous fun, felt so included.

When they finally say their goodbyes, it is well past the witching hour. 

Of course Mister Baggins and the Gamgees are hosting the king and queen of Gondor at Bag End. Frodo regretfully wishes they had more room to put them all up, but Boromir is in the last guest room; and what with Merry and Pippin both sprawled over the sitting room sofas... 

Legolas assures him kindly that the little cottage they’ve been borrowing is perfectly comfortable, and that the frigid night air will do he and Gimli good - help them shake off some of the alcohol before bed. Indeed the theatrical “ _argh!_ ” that Gimli yells out into the gently falling flurry is more out of invigoration than discomfort, an unspoken feeling of gratitude for being alive that Legolas by now knows well.

Gimli blusters about the cold all the way home, and Legolas is so amused by it that he bends forward, spilling over Gimli’s shoulders from behind so that together they careen forwards, stumbling the rest of the way down the lane, giggling and squawking through the dark. 

Once they get there, Gimli dumps his snow-powdered overcoat onto the floor and pulls Legolas down by the scarf he is trying to remove - this time for a kiss that is thorough, slow, full of promise so hot it seeps into and soothes the coldest places of him. Legolas obliges, of course he does, and wonders, as those big hands pull him close, dip under his clothes, if he can keep Gimli here long enough to meet the dawn.


End file.
